


more fragile than the human heart

by looketh_its_brooketh



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff and Angst, It Gets Worse, Lesbian Eloise Bridgerton, M/M, Minor Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smoking, bi king benedict bridgerton, eloise and benedict are wlw/mlm solidarity and that's a fact, homophobic middle-aged women warning, oblivious eloise?? kind of??, wlw rights that bridgerton should have given us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29891952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looketh_its_brooketh/pseuds/looketh_its_brooketh
Summary: In which Eloise Bridgerton has a revelation--although it's not the kind she wishes it was.
Relationships: Benedict Bridgerton & Eloise Bridgerton, Benedict Bridgerton/Henry Granville/Lucy Granville, Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton & Penelope Featherington, Eloise Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	more fragile than the human heart

**Author's Note:**

> this is probably going to be the only bridgerton fic i'll write bc daphne made me hate the show so. doing this for the girls and the gays ONLY <33

“I _will_ marry her!” The sound of high-pitched whining pulled Eloise from her reverie. There, cocooned in a flurry of colored fabrics, the youngest Bailey girl tugged at her mother’s skirts.

“What a silly thing to say,” Lady Bailey scoffed, tactfully attempting to remove the little girl’s hands. 

“But I _will_ , Mama! Brigitta and I have already planned the whole thing!”

“I know that Brigitta is your friend, darling—”

“She is my _best_ friend,” the girl firmly corrects.

“--and a lovely one at that. But you don’t marry a friend, dearest, you marry a husband.”

“But Mama—”

“Hush, Cecily. We are not going to speak of this any further. Help Madame Delacroix pick out a pattern for your sister’s new gown, alright?” Lady Bailey gives the successfully untangled Cecily a little push. “Children,” she sighs to the general vicinity of the shop. “What interesting fantasies they manage to come up with.”

“Just wait until the boy next door catches her eye,” Lady Drysdale calls from across the shop. “Worked like a charm for my Rosamund.”

“Don’t worry, Lady Bailey,” Lady Hughes adds, admiring her new bonnet in a gold framed mirror. “It is simply a phase all little girls go through. Girl friends are incredibly important when they’re young, but as soon as they reach that tender age, everything will turn out as it’s supposed to.”

The memory is all but forgotten as Penelope waves at Eloise from across the street. It is nearly nightfall--dark comes early this time of year--and Pen’s face is illuminated by a ghostly light that makes her stand out in stark contrast against the shadows of the world around her. Eloise waves back. Penelope grins and waves again enthusiastically. Eloise finds herself unable to hold back a smile of her own and waves back, eyebrows raised comically. Pen giggles (Eloise can clearly imagine the sound of it). They continue this back and forth until Eloise feels as if her arm is going to fall off and Penelope is bent at the waist from laughter. She glances suddenly behind her and then quickly turns back to Eloise, motioning an apologetic need to leave. She waves once more, finally. Eloise waves back. 

Then Penelope blows her a kiss. And then she and the ghostly yellow light—always yellow with Penelope, it seems—are gone. 

What an odd memory—and so suddenly remembered. The conversation had struck the young Eloise. Something with the weight of a great stone had seemed to set in her stomach—it’s back again, she realizes. How odd. Her heart is beating quickly. She feels warm all over—a quick hand to her cheek confirms it. Oh, God, is she coming down with something? Daphne had mentioned having an ache in her head earlier—of course, she’d catch something from _Daphne_ , she always catches illnesses thanks to her sister’s daintily weak constitution (no matter that Daphne is off somewhere with her lovely husband now, that isn't important), and of course it has to happen when she’s so, so close to finding out the identity of the elusive Lady Whistledown that she can nearly taste it! Perhaps she’ll visit Penelope in the morning; Lady Featherington has always been quite the hypochondriac, and clever Pen has somehow managed to sort out the exaggerations from the facts and now knows rather a lot about nursing one back to health. She’d make a good nurse someday, Eloise thinks, if her dreadful mother wasn’t so set on marrying her off. And if Pen didn’t fancy Colin.

There’s that feeling in her stomach again. She feels like she’s falling, or like she’s about to be sick, or something of that sort. Eloise presses her forehead to the window pane, allowing the sensation of glass on skin to cool her sweaty skin. It doesn’t help much. She sighs, a harsh stream of air disturbing the mess of bangs that is currently sticking to her forehead. She is in desperate need of a cigarette—now.

* * *

The night air is cold—almost too cold, but it doesn’t matter much. It’s almost impossible for Eloise not to feel at peace out here; honestly, it’s the only place she can ever truly be alone anymore. The London season is so dreadfully _loud_ —that’s something no one ever bothered to tell her. There’s too much fuss about the whole thing. All of the dresses, and the suitors, and the visits, and the parties stretch on for far too long, and apparently, she is the only one in the ton that thinks so, as no one has done a thing to ease her complaints—and she has not been quiet about those. Here, though, the stars shine in pin pricks through the leaves of the old oak tree that’s grown behind the house for as long as Eloise can remember. She takes a drag on her cigarette, feeling the smoke flow through her lungs like a healing draught.

How many times has she been out here over the years? Eloise always gets a bit nostalgic when she smokes—it’s one of the few flaws in her character. Running through the pristinely cut grass with her brothers, jotting down terrible poetry during family picnics, she and Pen lying on their backs, side by side, looking up at the clouds. Eloise always made up stories about the shapes she and Penelope saw—that was when she really started to consider writing as an option for her, if she had to put a time and place to it. Eloise and Penelope—it’s always been the two of them, hasn’t it? Even as the years went by and this spot started to become her spot, whether for smoking or writing or just getting away from it all, the shade of the oak tree has always been welcome to the one person who knows all of her secrets and listens with patience as she rambles and hugs her on the rare occasion when things just become too much and the only thing she can do is collapse into the arms of--

“I would treat her so much better than Colin would,” Eloise mutters bitterly, digging her heels into the solid earth. “He barely even notices her—hell, we’d be a better pair than any of the suitors her idiot mama could come up with!” 

_“What a silly thing to say!”_ And Eloise is back in Madame Delacroix’s shop, staring out at the street without really seeing it as the owner takes measurements for the hem of her gown, back stiffening for some reason she didn’t understand at the time and, frankly, still doesn’t now.

Oh. Oh, no.

“I’m in love with Penelope. I’m in love—with my best friend.” Eloise hears the harsh, strange, almost choked laugh that bursts from her throat. “Goddammit. _Goddammit_.” 

It’s a revelation. Eloise _adores_ revelations—when the facts all line up and the answer becomes clear as day. The problem is, this revelation does not involve the identity of a certain writer, which might be part of the reason why does she feels as trapped as when Mama or Daphne make any mention of her coming out.

“Eloise Bridgerton! Taking the Lord’s name in vain, are we? I am simply appalled!” Eloise doesn’t have it in her to flinch in surprise. She can’t even be bothered to turn around and acknowledge Benedict’s presence.

“You knew I was out here.” It’s not a question.

“Yes,” Benedict agrees, plopping down onto the swing beside her. “Of course! The second eldest brothers and sisters in a family have a special sixth sense, El. Surely you knew that?” He’s in his night clothes—she hazily notices that she is still dressed in her lavender day frock, which Mama would have a Mama-version of a fit over if she knew—and obviously hasn’t been sleeping well, judging from the state of his typically immaculately styled hair. 

“Couldn’t sleep?”

He nods sheepishly. “You wouldn’t mind—”

Eloise wordlessly hands him a cigarette.

“You’re an angel.” Benedict takes a drag, sighing contentedly. “So,” he says, turning to her with an unusual air of business, “why the late night seclusion?”

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” she fires back.

“Ah, ah, ah, you can’t just turn this around on me. Hmm. Let me think,” Benedict muses, pressing a thoughtful finger to his chin, “could my dearest sister possibly be—meeting up with a handsome young man?” He accompanies this with a wiggle of the eyebrows that would usually make her laugh, or at the very least, give him a shove.

Eloise’s cheeks burn. “Oh, ha, ha. You are just so amusing, Benedict, it’s a wonder you haven’t gone into comedy yet.” 

Benedict gasps in mock horror. “Well. That is just _hurtful_. It wasn’t an altogether terrible prediction, though, was it?”

Eloise doesn’t say anything.

“Oh, come on, El, work with me here. El? _Eloise_?” He waves his hand in front of her face—as if she’s in some sort of trance. It’s dreadfully irritating. Everything about him is dreadfully irritating, and God, this is supposed to be _her_ place. Hers and—

“You really want to know why I’m out here?” she snaps.

His eyes widen that yet, all trace of a joke gone. “I—yes. If you’ll tell me.”

“Then—then, shut up and listen.” Eloise presses her face into her hands, allowing the words to come out muffled. “I’m in love with Pen.”

“Er, what was that?”

“I’m. In. Love. With. Pen.” The words feel—well, not odd, but different, on her tongue. Truthful. Terrifying. Suddenly emboldened, she throws down her hands and calmly meets Benedict’s eyes. “Happy?”

“O—oh. With—Penelope? Featherington?”

“Obviously.” Benedict nods stiffly and begins to fiddle with everything in reach—his shirtsleeves, his fingernails, even his hair, which is becomes steadily messier. 

She shouldn’t have told him. Normally, he’d be saying something comforting, something stupidly perfect that would make her feel okay—or at least fine. “Alright, you clearly have something to say. Just spit it out, would you?” 

“Well, it’s not that I have _something to say_ , it’s—oh, Eloise…” 

She didn’t even realize she was crying until Benedict softly brushes away her tears with the pad of his thumb. Eloise allows herself a brief moment of comfort before pulling away, desperately wiping at her face. “I shouldn’t have told you. It was stupid. Forget I said anything. I’m going to bed.”

“Eloise.” Benedict grabs her hand. She doesn’t resist when he gently pulls her back down to her seat. “I’m…I’m glad you told me. Honestly, I am. It’s just—how do I explain it…”

Eloise is crying again, trying her damndest to blink away the red hot tears that won’t. Stop. Coming. “It’s not normal, is it? And—God, for some reason you know that, and all of the mamas in the ton do as well, and I’m—I’m really only guessing! Speculating! But, you. You know so _much_ , Benedict.”

“Thank you?”

“And I’m not saying that to inflate your ego.” She’s rambling, but at this point she doesn’t really care. “But even if you don’t know or aren’t supposed to know something, you’re able to find it out—you men. And your mamas. It’s not fair.” 

“You’re right,” he admits. “It’s not normal.”

Eloise flings her hands skyward. “See? How do you know that?” _And why on earth doesn't my ridiculous heart have the sense to know it as well?_

Benedict lets out a breath, leaning back on the swing and gazing heavenward. “People talk—or, rather, they don’t talk. It's--a bit taboo, honestly. But just because something isn’t normal doesn’t mean it’s wrong or bad. And if it does, well—” he glances over at Eloise, “I guess we’re both in trouble.”

Her eyes narrow. “What—” Then, she realizes. “Oh!”

“Yep,” he says, twiddling his fingers. 

“So. You fancy—”

“—and women,” he corrects. “Both.”

She doesn’t understand it completely. Maybe she isn’t supposed to. There are a great many things she doesn’t understand—even about herself, she is learning—but, this seems oddly fitting for Benedict. “Alright. I’m—glad you told me, as well.”

He holds his arms out for a hug, and she gratefully slides into them. 

“How did you figure it out?”

“Er…” Benedict pulls away. The night is dark, but do her eyes deceive her, or is her shameless brother blushing? “That is something—that I am not going to discuss.”

“Come now,” Eloise wheedles, grinning (it feels rather splendid to, after a good cry), “I already confided one of _my_ secrets.”

“How did you figure out your affections for Penelope, hm?”

Eloise sticks her tongue out at him. “Unoriginal.”

“I learned from the best,” Benedict says smugly. “You know, it makes sense, the more I think about it. You would be good together, I think--you and her."

"In a different lifetime, maybe."

Benedict ignores this. "But, El—you do realize that Pen is…well, she fancies Colin doesn’t she?”

Eloise sinks into her seat with a huff. “I’m well aware, believe me. I’m competent enough to realize when I don’t have a chance.” 

“Doesn’t hurt to have a little hope, does it?” Ever the optimist. Out here, though—looking up at the stars, which seem to be growing prettier and more eye-catching as the night progresses—Eloise finds that maybe, just maybe, optimism is a dream worth dwelling upon. Once again, the image of she and Penelope gazing up at the sky on sweet summer days comes to mind. Perhaps that's why Penelope always looks so lovely in yellow--the sun suits her rather well. “There’s always other fish in the sea, as well.”

“Hmph. Plenty of normal fish.”

“Oh, there’s an abnormal few mixed in,” Benedict says, waving his hand carelessly, “trust me.” His eyes light up, suddenly mischievous. “There’s always Lady Whistledown.”

Eloise guffaws. It’s not even that funny, but the late hour and the drying tracks of tears upon her face are a combination that leave her unable to stop laughing until she’s crying again (though, thankfully, they are tears of a different kind this time). “I’m telling you, Benny—the world of comedy could really benefit from your witticisms. But, really—Lady Whistledown?” 

“Why not? She is a woman of mystery, after all—and a powerful, hardworking, money making woman of mystery at that. Really, El, you never know…”

**Author's Note:**

> all of my fics are really just realizing you're in love with your best friend huh


End file.
